Back to Good
by chrissie0707
Summary: S6 spoilers. "Sam, what's..." It slowly dawns on him then, that it's not just blood on Sam's fingers, but HIS. Dean's shivering for real now, the look on his face one of our confusion, and it's absolutely infuriating. He had no idea he'd been bleeding so badly.


_Here is the second vacation prompt, this one for Nova42. She wanted something in the back half of season 6, in the aftermath of a possessed doll hunt, where Sam notices his brother showing signs of shock from an injury he wasn't aware he'd gotten._

 _If I had to pinpoint this story's placement, it's probably around the time of "Unforgiven."_

* * *

 **Back to Good**

"All I'm sayin', if dolls weren't creepy enough before, they sure as hell are now."

"And _I'm_ saying I already knew that, and am fully agreeing with you, so there's no need to keep bringing up Chucky." Said with a bit of bite, because that damn doll has always given Sam the creeps, and what's more, Dean _knows_ it. That bright orange hair, like a clown's.

Dean holds up a finger, wags it as he swallows an overzealous mouthful of beer. " _Bride_ of Chucky. Still fuckin' creepy – " He mock-shivers, for effect. " – but _hot._ "

Sam chuckles in spite of himself and tips back a long pull from his own bottle, shaking his head. "You're an idiot."

For all intents and purposes, this is a celebratory outing, but Sam knows better than to allow himself to _fully_ forget that there are at least a dozen things dogging one or both of them – Lucifer and Lisa and Eve and the fucking mental wall that's keeping what's left of his sanity in check. But every now and then, he catches himself almost…relaxing. And it almost seems…easy. Like the old days.

This hunt, in particular, was supposed to be a quick detour into easy. Like the old days. A nice Midwestern family in an old country farmhouse being annoyingly – but not lethally – tormented by the spirit of a former, unsettled occupant of the home. A salt and burn that they could handle in their sleep. What ended up being noteworthy about this job, and the catalyst of their current cringe-worthy conversation, was that the spirit in question had chosen to wreak havoc by possessing the young daughter's doll. American Girl, or whatever; the one with the braids. Which was, yes, _creepy_ – to say the least. With an innocent smirk molded onto its pale face and those glassy dead eyes glowing to eerie life as soon as the spirit perceived the Winchesters as a threat.

Sam too easily whupped Dean's ass in a quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors and won bone-burning detail at the cemetery across town, leaving his older brother behind with the young family to provide protection and, likely, distraction. So he'd missed the aerial show, but the combination of the shattered living room window and Dean's awkward gait painted a vivid-enough picture of what had gone down in his absence.

Other than the fact they were both frozen through, his brother didn't seem to have a mark on him, and that left Sam feeling free to toss a few jabs his way. Because they've each been pitched across their fair share of rooms by ghosts and demons and everything in between, but never by a _doll_. He gave up on the jokes pretty quickly though, because Dean was as sore as was to be expected, moving stiffly and grimacing with every step. He'd shrugged off Sam's helping hand on the way down the long drive, stretched at the car and cracked his back with a wince. He then declared himself to be in very serious need of a drink, though preferably somewhere indoors, where he wouldn't be freezing his balls off. So everything seemed to be about as well as it ever was.

Now, Dean seems to have shaken it off and loosened up a bit. He raises his eyebrows and cocks his head in that way he has that means _yeah, you're probably right,_ brings the bottle back up to his lips. He chokes a bit mid-drink, beer foaming up and over the neck of the bottle as he slams it back to the tabletop to cough violently against his fist.

Sam frowns, concern spiking as he taps his fingertips against the soggy label on his own bottle. "Y'all right?"

"Fine," Dean replies, hoarse and annoyed, coughing once more before thumping a hand against his chest. "Just went down the wrong pipe." But his eyes are a little glassy and it doesn't seem like he believes the words coming out of his own mouth. Actually seems a little nauseated, now that Sam's looking for it. Pale, maybe.

Spidey-sense tingling, he leans in a bit over the table and speaks in a low tone, lest he be overheard calling into question the manhood of the infallible Dean Winchester. "You sure you're okay?"

"Mm." His brother nods tightly. "Great." Dean raises his eyes to the bar, motions to someone behind Sam for another round. The small movement draws a wince from him, as he tightens his fingers around his empty bottle and shifts uncomfortably on his stool.

Sam's recalibrated a few of his inner sensors and thresholds since…well, the _wall_ , and his concern for his big brother's wellbeing, be it physical, mental or emotional, has seen the most sensitive changes. He might not _remember_ everything he did, or didn't do, or merely allowed to happen in those months before Death retrieved his soul, but he knows it was something. Probably a lot of somethings. Enough to put this unsure and anxious – yet hopefully not permanent – look in Dean's eyes.

What he does know is that nothing of the sort will ever happen again.

There's a new, obvious hesitance in his big brother that's never before been a dominant trait. Dean keeps looking at Sam like he's some novelty glass trinket he's afraid he can't _breathe_ on without cracking right down the middle. The things he doesn't want his little brother to remember are _bad_ , and Sam gets that, but trying not to think about such incidences is sort of like trying to ignore the giant elephant sitting in the middle of the room. Great in theory, but it's not an effective long-term solution.

He'll kill himself – or both of them – trying to remember everything that happened, so Sam's been doing what he can to compensate for all of it with the little things he can do differently now. Do _right_. It'll never truly balance the scales, but it's something.

He's trying to be a little more in tune with his brother's discomfort, for starters; to all of those things Dean's grown accustomed to hiding because he's terrified what any amount of stress will do to Sam, and the wall. So what may before have seemed to be an innocent-enough shift on a barstool or a swig of beer down the wrong pipe now has Sam looking for more. He thinks back on that shattered picture window, of pieces of glass sparkling on the lawn and Dean walking slowly and stiffly to the car. "What is it?" he asks, bluntly.

"What's what?" Dean tries to act annoyed but he's looking increasingly unwell, and now that he's gotten going, can't seem to stop squirming in his seat.

The bar is dim and sparsely crowded, with music thumping from cheap speakers mounted at the corners of the ceiling, and they've chosen their trademark back-corner table. Sam frowns, unable to get a good read on what's bothering his brother, but knows better than to ignore this instinct. He reaches across the small table, tugs on the sleeve of Dean's jacket where his arm rests across the tabletop. "Stand up a sec."

Dean makes a face and then a move to shrug him off. "Dude, Sam, knock it – "

His agitated protest cuts to a sharp intake of breath as his little brother harshly jerks on his sleeve, because he's just managed to twist in the right way for Sam to catch a glimpse of a concerning dark bloom on the back of his jacket.

His coat had hidden any evidence of injury before, at the house and in the car, but there's been time now, for it to soak up the blood. A large swath of the thick olive-colored material is saturated, stained a deep, dangerous crimson that glistens under the ceiling lights.

The past few weeks haven't been easy, to say the least. He's been trying not to need and Dean's been trying not to be needed, and Sam's slipped up, allowed himself to fall into a well-ingrained and mutually destructive pattern of taking things at face value. He'd seen the farmhouse's broken window but hadn't persisted in checking his brother over.

"Dean," Sam says, appalled with them both and drawing out his brother's name like a curse, or a warning. He pops up from his own chair, scooting it back with a scraping drag of wood on wood, and swoops around to Dean's side. He manhandles his chilly, spluttering brother into a position to get a better look, hand seemingly drawn to the spot, like he subconsciously has to _check_ that it's blood on his brother's jacket, and not something like oil or grease or mud. _Please, please be mud._

But Sam knows too well the feel, the texture of blood between his fingertips. Especially his brother's.

Dean makes a growling noise of protest at the intrusion of Sam's hand along his back, but doesn't quite seem pained, yet. He wrenches away, a curse on his lips. And then he sees the blood shining on Sam's fingers.

It's concern that twists Dean's pale features first, obvious worry that the blood is Sam's. But it's short-lived, as Sam can almost pinpoint the exact moment the pain hits his big brother. His brows draw together, and fine lines stand out at the corners of his glassy eyes.

"Sam, what's…" It slowly dawns on him then, that it's not just blood on Sam's fingers, but HIS. Dean's shivering for real now, the look on his face one of pure confusion. It's absolutely infuriating, because he had _no idea_ he'd been bleeding so badly.

Sam wants to shake him, but can't honestly see how that's going to help matters. He needs to get his brother out of here. Needs to get him somewhere cleaner and more sterile than a dive bar with gum stuck under the tables and peanut shells littering the floor, and take care of whatever wound is hidden beneath protective layers that have failed as miserably as he has.

He too easily pins Dean against the edge of the table and moves the jacket aside, lifts his damp flannel and blood-soaked charcoal gray t-shirt. His jaw drops. "Jesus, Dean."

It's a short, clean slice on his back and not close to his spine, but deep. Deep enough to be scary as hell for Sam, but he has to think if there was any _serious_ damage, they wouldn't have been sitting here shooting the shit for the past forty-five minutes. His brother's still managed to lose a lot of blood, red painting his clothes and now, Sam's hands.

Sam is hardwired toward fury, and he hits all of the phases of frustration in record time. Anger first, and indignation a close second. He just throws all of it in the wrong direction. "What the _hell_ , Dean?" he hisses in a harsh whisper. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"

Dean doesn't manage anything in the vicinity of an intelligent response. He can play through _a lot_ , but as usual, now that he's been made aware of the injury and blood loss he's fading fast, and needs Sam's hand at his elbow to keep from dropping straight to the dirty floor. He dips his chin in unspoken thanks for the support, licks his lips. His legs are shaky and his fingers are white where they grip the back of his chair.

Sam swallows, feeling like a dick. Like this is just as much his fault as all of those unsavory things his brother doesn't want him to remember. He digs a folded twenty from his jeans pocket and tosses it to the table, to cover the beers Dean's just motioned for that they won't be sticking around to drink. "Yeah. Let's get out of here."

"Mm," is all the reply he gets, from a white-washed brother who continues to be unaware of his own limitations and mortality.

"Hey, buddy," a voice calls from behind them as they make their way through the bar. "He okay?"

 _No, not really_ , Sam thinks grimly as his brother's considerable weight slips against his side. "He's fine," he says, trying to dissuade any prying eyes. "Just had one too many." He tightens his grip around Dean's waist, fingers squelching in blood-dampened canvas.

Dean gasps, fully in tune with his own pain now, and pulls away. Tries to, anyway, but doesn't have the strength to go too damn far. Sam gently tugs on a drier section of jacket and tucks his brother back against his side.

"Holy shit," a bar patron correctly observes from off to their right, eyes loose with liquor but features twisted in disgust as he rises slowly. "S'that blood?"

"No," Sam replies stonily, and herds his sluggish brother in the direction of the exit.

The Impala is waiting for them at the edge of the gravel lot, and Dean staggers away from him when they reach the large car, folds in half and pukes up hot beer next to the front right wheel.

Sam takes the opportunity to snatch his brother's cool wrist, dismayed by the rapid pulse thrumming away beneath his fingertips. "Jesus, Dean," he breathes again, with pure anxiety wrapping the words, no longer capable of directing any anger his brother's way.

"Mm," Dean grunts again, but Sam can't be sure it's a deliberate response on his brother's part, or just a weak, hurt noise slipping past his considerable defenses.

"Here," Sam directs, hauling him upright and planting him firmly against the side of the car. "Don't move."

Dean screws up his nose and reaches out a shaky hand to wrap his palm around the curve of the Impala's roof. He mutters something under his breath, which Sam can't clearly hear but assumes is some half-assed and not-meant insult slung his way.

He takes a step back and watches his brother closely for a beat, ensuring Dean's not gotten so shocky he can't keep himself propped stationary against the car for the next thirty seconds. He's sickeningly pale and wavers a bit, clouds puffing on the cold night air as he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, but seems steady enough for Sam to spare a moment digging in the backseat for something to staunch the flow of the still-bleeding injury. He finds a clean-looking towel in a mess of loose clothing and straightens, pops open the passenger side door and eases his brother onto the seat with the towel wadded up and stuffed in tight behind him, meant both to put pressure on the bleed and protect the seat. Because that'll be Dean's first question in the morning.

They're only a few blocks from the motel and it's a short drive. Sam takes it slow, but the trip is still punctuated by gasps and groans from the other side of the bench seat each time he hits a bump in the road or takes a turn at any speed.

He eases the Impala to a stop outside of their room and pockets the keys before he even opens the door, because that's sure to be his brother's second question. Sam hurries around the front of the car and throws open Dean's door, goes to work tugging on his brother's arm, which wrests a choked gasp of pain from the man.

"Stop, Sam," Dean rasps, pawing at his brother's arm as he tries in vain to pull away. "Geddoff me." He melts back against the seat as he's released, looking shaky, ghostly. His eyes fall closed and his throat works as he swallows.

"Dean, if – " Sam bites his lip and takes a step back, but for only a beat before pressing on. "If you can't get out of the car, I'm taking you straight to the hospital." He regrets it immediately, even giving his dumbass brother the option.

Dean blinks his eyes open and rolls them tiredly, but stubbornly, in Sam's direction. "I got it," he says, breathily and predictably, and moves to grip the dashboard with one white-knuckled hand and the edge of the bench seat with the other. With a grimace, he rotates on the seat and plants a boot on the asphalt, agonizingly slowly. "M'okay."

He's not, at _all_ , and the combination of his pigheadedness and lack of coordination is only going to cause him to injure himself further, so Sam ducks swiftly under his brother's arm, gripping Dean's cool wrist tightly and drags it across his own shoulder as he pulls his brother to his feet. As he swings the wide door shut, he spares a glance at the towel left behind on the bench, and his stomach churns at the bright bloom of blood standing out on the material.

He keeps hold of his brother as he works to wrangle the room key from his pocket, and Dean makes a throaty noise of protest, like he's just realizing Sam hauled him all the way to the door, and tries to take over his own weight.

"I'm fine, Sam, I don't need you to – "

Dean overbalances in the middle of his spiel, trips sideways and smacks his face against the edge of the door as Sam's opening it. He bounces backward with a grunt, sags against his waiting brother.

"You were saying?" Sam shakes his head and hisses, inspecting the two-inch gash Dean's just opened up along his jawline, adding a few more stitches to the night's festivities. _Fantastic._ "Just - drop the tough guy act, all right? You've lost enough blood tonight."

The impact has left Dean groggy and bit more pliable, and Sam easily enough gets him stripped of his jacket and shirts and planted face-down atop one of the beds, with his already ruined t-shirt folded up between his bloody cheek and the pillowcase.

"Okay." Sam pushes his hands through his hair, rubs fingertips across his chin and tries not to stare at the open, bleeding wound on his brother's back. "Stay there a sec, okay, man? I gotta go back out for the kit."

Dean grunts, but otherwise doesn't so much as twitch a finger.

Sam retrieves the kit quickly from the car, shucks his jacket and tosses it carelessly to the small table, drags a chair close to Dean's side. He spares no time in getting right to work closing the wound on his brother's back, from which blood is still sluggishly pumping. Dean twitches at the first intrusion of the curved needle, but doesn't flinch after that.

Sam's eyes are drawn to a long, puckered scar over his brother's right shoulder blade, a strike from a claw or a blade. It looks relatively recent, and he's momentarily stricken, fingers frozen mid-stitch as he realizes he can't place when Dean received the injury. It had been sewn up, but he can't remember stitching such a wound himself.

His thoughts spiral as he ties off the last of the sutures, wondering if something nasty got its hands on his brother while he wasn't looking, or caring. Wondering if he was responsible.

He gets Dean onto his side long enough to decide the gash on his face will be okay with a few butterfly bandages, and rouses his brother enough to swallow some painkillers and antibiotics. He goes through the motions of putting away the kit and cleaning up the room, feeling nearly as numb as the blood loss has no doubt left Dean. There's a six-pack chilled in the cooler on the counter, and Sam puts down two of the cans in rapid succession.

It's been a long day with longer yet to come, and Sam's mentally exhausted, wrung out. And as he settles into an uncomfortable chair for another sleepless night of taking vitals and checking stitches, he succumbs to a loose, boozy wondering: if his best of intentions count for exactly _shit_ , if he lets Dean get away with this sort of thing despite knowing better and meaning to do the exact opposite, if he still ends up squirreled away in a trashy motel with his unconscious, bloody brother because he let an injury go unnoticed…just how much difference does a soul truly make?


End file.
